"Tell me who's watching
And I don't feel safe anymore, oh what a mess
I wonder who's watching me now
Who?
The IRS?!"
- Rockwell, "Somebody's Watching Me"
Chapter Six
Despite my assurances I was fine, if only a little anxious, Cruz insisted I get checked out by the on-scene ambulances. The paramedics eventually released me with a diagnosis of head-to-toe bumps and bruises and warned me of the signs of a concussion.
They also confirmed what the news articles had stated. There were only mild to moderate injuries caused by the panicked stampedes of partygoers. It could've been much worse. Or, if you listened to the few opportunistic attendees already babbling to reporters, the party was as bad as it could've possibly been.
Kennedy met me at the ambulance, flying into my arms with shared relief and locking me in a steel hug. Where I was emotionally numb, she bordered dangerously on the edge of hysteria. Both were typical responses of post-traumatic whiplash.
When we finally parted, reassured the other was okay, we saw another familiar face in the gathering crowd.
Oliver towered over a steadily shrinking officer, arguing his way through the police barricade with loud animation. I'd never seen him so furiously overwrought with emotion, and apparently neither had Kennedy, who immediately leapt into his open arms. Oliver frantically caught her. His eyes and hands roamed over her face and body like he couldn't believe she was real. He confirmed she was okay while simultaneously demanding she tell him if hurt, and he held her. He held her as they both teetered on the emotional edge.
Somewhere in the residual panic, between the desperate and delicate kisses showered on cheeks and lips, they eventually accepted the other was there. There was nothing like the raw fear and gratefulness that pervaded their touches and desperate holds. I looked away, mindful of their privacy in the intimate reunion.
I got the full story after. Kennedy had left the bathroom right as the gun went off, and had been swept away in the crowd; she'd been deposited outdoors where she couldn't find me. But she was okay. Or she would be, eventually, with her fiancé by her side.
I didn't know anything else beyond that. I was numb.
There was no easy way to process what'd happened that night. A gun had gone off. It was something that never was, never would be, and never could be okay. I wouldn't wake up the next day, or the next week, or even the next year, and be okay with what'd happened. There was no magically waking up and moving on. How could I? My life had almost been mercilessly snatched by a faceless gunman; my heartbeat almost ripped away by a psychotic criminal still on the loose.
One of the few things I could never get back if taken had been threatened by a collection of metal, gunpowder, and violence.
How was I supposed to process that? Was I just supposed to accept it as a part of life? Or even worse, accept it as a part of my job?
Danger was a given in the miraculous and heavenly hellfire that was life. That I could agree with. I knew that to be true—but this? This danger wasn't fair. This danger wasn't okay. Where did I draw the line? How could I not demand retribution, argue for change, and bargain for safety after that night?
Didn't I deserve to feel safe?
I was angry.
Nervous.
Furious.
Scared out of my mind.
I wasn't scared the gunman would come after me; I was convinced I was only a potential victim of opportunity. But I was admittedly scared of the choices I'd made. If someone was targeting Cruz, then the smart choice would be to wave goodbye and hop on the interstate without looking back.
I wasn't doing that. Though I'd had a plan, and a paved way out, I'd delayed my dream to stay in the line of danger.
It'd felt like the right thing to do—but I wasn't sure it was the smart thing to do.
After Friday's disaster of a party, the weekend was an emotionally and physically tolling drag. There were more tearful reunions, countless check-ins with coworkers, long conference calls, and unfortunate dealings with media hounds. Friday night bled into Saturday, and then Sunday.
The movers came on Monday, and so did Oliver. Just as promised, he showed up bright and early and jolted me awake from my spot on the couch. He took one look at me, buried in the nest of files I'd fallen asleep in a few hours before, and immediately sent me to the shower. Oliver took control of the movers, handling things with ease as I stumbled around and got ready for work. But even in my fatigue, his concerned glances didn't go unnoticed.
"Avery, take the day. You need sleep," Oliver persuaded. "Right now, you and Ken need time. You need stability. Work can wait."
I hoisted my bag on my shoulder and tightened my grip on Rolo's leash. My dog was stiff by my side, his eyes watching the movers with dangerous unease. His territory was being dismantled and he was anything but a happy camper about it.
"My boss booked me a hotel room near the office for the week. I'm dropping off Rolo, then I'm going to get some work done. But I do plan on sleeping, I promise," I said.
I feebly shuffled towards the door, sidestepping a mover carrying bubble wrap. Oliver didn't relent. "I said sleep, not work. I get that you're here for another week to help out, but you can't push yourself this hard. You should've rescheduled the movers and taken some time off."
"The movers have a cancellation policy. It's fine, they'll bring my stuff to D.C. and hold it until I get there. Baros said I could start next week instead of Thursday, so it all works out. I'll leave this Friday."
Oliver huffed in response. A deep scowl creased his face, and he looked like he'd experienced one hell of a weekend as well. I was sure he'd had a hard time leaving Kennedy. She could've come with him, of course, but I doubted she wanted to hang around while Oliver helped the movers and I toiled in my office.
In truth, I couldn't imagine what Oliver had felt that night after receiving a news alert like that. Getting an alert so terrifying, stating a gunman had crashed the party his fiancée was attending, was something from a nightmare. I also couldn't imagine how hard it'd be to leave her side every day after.
I paused at the door, looking back at Oliver. He didn't understand why I'd choose to go back to work, and I didn't know if I could explain it. I wasn't sure he'd understand even if I did. Trauma and subsequent responses didn't seem to be rational or clear. It didn't even seem to be linear.
"Thank you, Oliver," I started, struggling to find the right words. "I mean it. I know I was supposed to be here to help today, and I'm sure you probably don't want to be here, but I'm really thankful you're here to help anyway. Both with the movers, and just... being a friend. I don't know how I could've done it without you."
"I want you to take care of yourself, Avery. What you and Kennedy went through..." Oliver's voice cracked, faltering to wobbly silence. He looked away and I puffed an aching breath, swallowing my heart. It threatened to burst, climb up my throat, or sink to the floor, never to be seen again.
"I know. But I have to go—I have to help. I can't just walk away. I have to do something, Ollie. I can help the new team, or potentially even help them identify this guy."
Oliver swallowed hard, his sad brown eyes finding me again. He looked distraught, torn, angry. Oliver didn't know how to help and that made him anxious. I knew that feeling, but I wasn't sure I could help him with it.
"Just promise me you're going to be safe. Stay with the security team," he ordered. Then his voice lowered to a furious mutter, "Even if they're the ones who let the gunman get in the party in the first damn place."
His face clouded with anger, and anger was something I understood. It wasn't what either of us needed, but it was seen and acknowledged. "Whoever shot that gun was good, but Greystone's better. They found a weak spot to exploit. It won't happen again; I'm sure of it."
Oliver nodded, though I could tell from his clenched jaw his temper was still flared. Every protective instinct carved into his personality had been ignited. When Oliver got angry, it was a rare occurrence, but he could seem terrifying to a stranger's eyes. With his bulky shoulders and steady frame from years of playing college football, Oliver was someone people would fear if they didn't know him.
Like I'd said, I understood anger better than I understood fear. Fear was harder. But they shared similarities; there were times they both lacked rationality, and others when they were the only things that made sense. My anger made sense, and so did his anger. Our fear made sense, as scary as it was. But while the emotions made sense, the events that'd triggered them had not.
"Can you text me when the movers are done? The cleaning crew comes tomorrow. It's all set up with the landlord, though, so no need to worry about that. And you have the keys to turn in, right?" I asked. Oliver nodded, patting his pocket.
"I really appreciate this, Ollie. Are you sure it's not too much trouble? I can drop off Rolo and come back after work to handle the keys."
"Go to work if you have to, Avery, but don't worry about this. I'll handle the movers and drop off the keys. Get some sleep and call me if you need anything."
"Thank you," I said again, feeling as if those words couldn't adequately convey my gratefulness. But it was time to go, so I took one last look at the apartment before trudging to the elevator.
"I mean it, Avery! Get some sleep!"
I nodded back, promising before the doors closed. Then I left my apartment for the last time. If I wasn't so numb, maybe that realization would've hit me harder than it did. It was only a few days earlier that I'd been overwhelmed with sentimentality over the place.
But after that weekend, I didn't feel anything at all. I was as empty as the barrel of the gun that'd almost killed me.
The hotel was way nicer than anything I could afford on my own. Cruz had insisted he'd handle everything, and I'd let him. I had gratefully agreed after realizing it was a losing battle to point out I could take care of it myself—though I wasn't sure I would've agreed in good conscious had I known the level of luxury waiting for me downtown.
I wasn't sure if pets were really allowed, but Cruz had assured me it was fine. It was a perk of having connections, I supposed. Rolo didn't seem to agree with my hesitation to accept Cruz's goodwill; he happily zoomed around the large suite.
"Okay, Rolo. It's just us. We got this." I leaned down and pressed several kisses between Rolo's fluffy ears as he leaned against my legs. His tail joyfully thumped against me. "We'll be in D.C. soon, buddy."
I gathered a stack of files and gave Rolo one last head rub.
"Alright. Be good. I cannot afford for you to wreck this place," I said seriously.
I grabbed my purse and headed to the parking garage; my car beeped as I hurried through the second level. The cool concrete offered a welcome shelter from the unwavering June sun, and a light breeze ruffled the pages in my arms.
But along with the breeze came goosebumps.
I feel like somebody's watching me.
My body shivered at the thought, trembling at the feeling of stalking eyes potentially watching my movements. Panic began to creep up my shoulders. I suddenly felt cold despite the heat—much colder than the breeze accounted for. My head bobbed around nervously as I craned my neck to see if I could spot anyone between the cars. I hurried faster to my own, ears straining to hear anything that would tell me I wasn't alone.
I heard nothing. But a piece of trash skittered in front of me in the next flow of breeze, causing me to almost shoot out of my skin.
Bad choice of words. Bad, bad choice of words.
I took a shuddering breath as my hand tugged on the car door. I shoved my stuff in, and practically dove into the seat, immediately slamming the locks. My breathing was short and shallow.
Is this a panic attack? Am I having a panic attack?
My hands gripped the wheel and refused to budge. I twisted around, double checking my back seat before scanning the garage in another deep sweep. Then I did it again.
When I was finally certain I was alone, my head landed on the steering wheel with a dull thud.
There's no one here. It's an empty parking garage. There's no gunman creeping in the shadows. You're fine.
It took a moment to settle myself. My heartbeat still pulsed frantically and my lungs couldn't seem to gather enough air for a deep breath.
But eventually I started the car, backed out of the parking space, and pulled out of the garage. I focused on how the summer air felt in my lungs as I headed to work. I focused on what I could see, hear, and feel when I stopped at red lights. And I told myself I was silly for my paranoia.
If this was how I felt as the almost-victim, I couldn't imagine how Cruz or any of the other high-ranking citizens from the party were feeling; they were the more-likely targets of the stray bullet. I desperately prayed the culprit would be caught, and I sincerely hoped the insanity would be over with as soon as possible.
Because I wasn't sure how much more I could take if the prayers didn't come true.
I think this book got its first reader! I hope you stuck with it long enough to see this. Thank you.
I hope you stick around as we get through this together. I appreciate you so much.
- H